


If the Zombies Don't Kill Us...

by madsthenerdygirl



Category: Doctor Who, Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-27
Updated: 2016-03-27
Packaged: 2018-05-29 11:31:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,513
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6373033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madsthenerdygirl/pseuds/madsthenerdygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As if a demon-started zombie apocalypse weren't enough, we have to put up with these weirdos. Superwholock--yup, you read that right. Total crack.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally posted on fan fiction.net in 2013 and is being crossposted here along with the rest of my work. I still can't believe I wrote this. It was a total crackfic based on a "Dream Zombie Team" thing I saw on Facebook. Join me in cringing at this story and myself for writing it.

Piccadilly Circus was, at the best of times, bursting with people. They sat all over the massive statue in the center, crowded into the theatres and shops on the corners, and poured in and out of the tube station.

Add in a massive horde of flesh-eating zombies, and you had complete and utter pandemonium.

Given the highly chaotic (and crowded) situation, it was understandable that no one noticed--or gave any thought to--the three men who suddenly appeared right next to the statue. One of them, with bowlegs and deep green eyes, looked like he was about to throw up. The second was taller, with hair that was almost too long to be masculine, and taking in the situation with wide, startled eyes and a slack jaw. The third was sporting a long tan trenchcoat and had his arm on the first man's shoulder in a supportive manner.

"You're lucky a boat would've taken too long," Dean Winchester grumbled, rubbing his forehead. "I fucking hate it when you zap us."

"My apologies," Castiel replied dryly. The angel looked up, assessing the situation. "I see that the curse has already afflicted this nation."

"That's kind of the point of a worldwide curse, Cas. It hits  _worldwide._ "

"Uh, guys?" Sam Winchester said, still looking around them. "Stop me if I'm wrong but I don't think we're in the Scottish Highlands."

The other hunter and the angel took in their surroundings for the first time since arriving. Dean turned to Castiel with raised eyebrows.

"It appears I should apologize again," Castiel said slowly. "We appear to have landed in the center of London."

"Smack dab in the center?" Dean said slowly.

"I wouldn't say the exact center but in the main part of the city, yes," Castiel replied calmly.

Dean blinked and shook his head a little. "Cas… we said 'Scottish Highlands.' That's where Crowley went. How the fuck does that translate to you zapping us to London!?"

"I'm not sure…" Castiel said slowly, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement.

"Just how many hundreds of miles of difference are there?" Dean demanded.

"I hate to break up the lovefest here, guys," Sam intervened, "But I think we have a problem."

Dean would have asked what kind of problem, exactly, but it when there are a hundred or so zombies shuffling towards you it's kind of obvious what the problem is.

"This way!"

All three swung around to find the source of the sharp, commanding voice. A tall, gaunt man with exceptionally sharp cheekbones and a mop of thick, dark curling hair was gesturing at them to follow him. At his side was a much shorter, sandy-haired man with a look of disbelief on his face.

"Sherlock!" The shorter man hissed. "We can't afford to pick up stragglers…"

"They appeared out of thin air, John," the consulting detective replied with perfect calm.

"Lovely. Maybe they can pull a disappearing act as well, get us out of here," Watson shot back.

"This way!" Sherlock yelled again, waving at the hunters and the angel.

"I think we better do as he says," Sam suggested. "He at least seems to know where he's going."

"As long as he gets us out of this mess, I'm happy," Dean muttered.

The three ran, dodging frantic pedestrians, to catch up with the two British gentlemen.

"Excellent. Follow me," Sherlock turned and started off.

"Nice to meet you too," Dean grumbled.

"Dr. John Watson, and that's my flatmate Sherlock Holmes. He's a detective. We're heading to a safehouse and apparently Sherlock wants you to come with."

"I'm Dean, that's my brother Sam, and this…" Dean put an arm on Castiel's shoulder, his lips twitching. "Is Cas."

"Castiel," the angel corrected.

Watson nodded. "Great. We'd better get going. Any of you have weapons?"

Dean and Sam replied, "Yes," just as Castiel said, "I do not require them."

"Right then," Watson said, puzzled. "Let's go."

The four of them took off after the rapidly vanishing Sherlock.

* * *

"It appears as if we've arrived during a great emergency," The Doctor observed, frowning in puzzlement.

"I'd say that's an understatement. What's going on?" Rose wondered, gazing around her in confusion.

"Let's check it out!" The Doctor said enthusiastically, bounding off.

"Wha–-wait! Where are you–?" Rose sighed. "Doctor!" She hurried to follow her companion through the crowded streets, fighting against the flow of the crowd.

"Strange… they all seem to be running away from something…" The Doctor paused. "Rose? Do you hear a strange sound?"

"Depends on what you mean by strange," Rose panted.

The Doctor cocked his head, listening intently. "It almost sounds like a gigantic chorus of moaning…"

And then they saw it. A wave of corpses, their flesh rotting and peeling, limbs broken and skin torn but with no sign of blood, congealed or otherwise. Those that had eyes stared straight ahead, while others had empty, gaping sockets. Their mouths hung open, from which emanated the horrendous, continuous moaning.

Rose instinctively gripped the Doctor's arm. "Are… are those…?"

"Yes, I do believe those are zombie,." The Doctor replied. "While I'm all for originality I think it's best if we were to follow the crowd on this one."

"I'm with you."

They took off, scrambling to escape, swept along with the mass of panicked citizens.


	2. Chapter 2

Dashing through the back alleys of London was second nature for Sherlock, but he often forgot that it might not be such a habit for his companions. John had learned to put up with it but the one bowlegged American was complaining none too quietly.

Sherlock wondered if John would be angry if the man "accidentally" got lost in the crowd. Probably. John was compassionate that way. Bother.

"Why are we even following these people?" Sherlock heard the complainer hiss.

"Because they know how to get out of this horde, Dean," the gravel-voiced man replied. "And while the infection will not affect me, I rather prefer that you and Sam stay alive."

"Gee, thanks, Cas," Dean snorted.

"Why doesn't it?" John asked.

"What doesn't it what?" Dean asked.

"Why doesn't the infection affect Cas…" Sherlock looked back as John trailed off, and was just in time to catch the murderous glare Dean sent the doctor's way. "...tiel. Why doesn't the infection affect Castiel?"

"Because I am an angel of the Lord," Castiel replied before Dean could clap a hand over his mouth. And he did try to--Sherlock saw the man's hand twitch upwards towards the angel's mouth.

Sherlock quickly surmised that Dean was the only person allowed to address the angel--Castiel--by the nickname of "Cas", with the possible exception of Sam. It didn't matter, as Sherlock had no intention of assigning nicknames to anyone, but he filed away the information. It might come in handy later on. As for the "angel of the Lord" bit… he wasn't entirely certain that there was a God, but John certainly believed in Him. John thought Sherlock didn't know about the Bible in the man's top dresser drawer.

Silly. Sherlock knew every article of the flat by heart, especially those pertaining to John. The question was, would John believe these angelic claims?

"Right," John said, nodding. Sherlock knew that nod. It was Nod #35 (he categorized John's facial expressions and movements in order to better remember them). Nod #35 meant that John was humoring someone (usually Sherlock).

"Can we get a move on?" Dean said, shifting from foot to foot (uncomfortable with subjects dealing with Castiel "Cas"--interesting note, must observe interactions between the two).

"Dean is right," Sherlock announced. "We must get a move on or Mycroft will leave without us."

"What?" John spluttered. "Mycroft wouldn't leave without us."

"You are forever underestimating my brother's cold-heartedness," Sherlock reminded him. John had such faith in people, even when they didn't deserve it--unless their name started with "Jim" and ended with "Moriarty."

"I think you both overestimate each other," John grumbled, but he obediently broke out into a jog, the others following suit.

"What the fuck have we gotten ourselves into?" Sherlock heard Dean mutter--most likely to Castiel.

"A zombie apocalypse, Dean. I thought you were aware of that."

"Cas… I love you man, but sometimes I really want to just punch you."

"If you two don't shut up I'll punch  _both_  of you," Sam, the third American who had so far been silent, threatened darkly.

Both Castiel and Dean were quiet after that, but Sherlock could still feel the stares the two were sending each other.

He made a mental note to check their hands for wedding rings.

* * *

"And here I thought we'd get to have a day where we didn't have to run," Rose gasped, but she was laughing.

"But it does wonders for your heart rate," The Doctor informed her.

Rose laughed harder. "Oh, yes. Amazing cardio, this is."

Somebody screamed, and suddenly a very heavy women fell down right on top of where Rose and the Doctor's hands were joined. Rose went down with the woman, giving an involuntary squeal. The Doctor felt Rose's fingers slip out of his and he stumbled back a little.

"Rose!" He cried, worried.

"I'm all right," Rose called out. "I think she fainted."

"I'm coming." The Doctor tried to fight his way over to her, but the stream of fleeing Brits was like a forceful current, getting in between him and Rose and widening the gap by the minute.

And then they heard the moans again.

"Doctor!" Rose cried out. "I'm stuck, my hand's stuck underneath her!"

"Just hold still! I'm on my way." He shouted, trying not to let his panic show. He had no idea if these undead could infect him, but they could certainly infect Rose… if they didn't tear her to pieces first.

The tide of humanity was sweeping him farther away from her.

"Rose!" He called out, truly frightened now.

"Doctor…" Her voice was far too faint for his liking.

"Rose!" He shouted, his voice cracking slightly. "Rose Tyler!"

There was no reply.

* * *

"We have approximately five minutes before Mycroft leaves…"

"Sherlock, how do we even know he'll let three strangers on board?"

"Because I'll be stubborn."

"Yes, because that worked out wonderfully at Buckingham with the bed sheet."

"Son of a bitch…" Dean muttered. "One of those two is loopy, and I can't figure out which one it is yet."

"Neither of them is insane, Dean," Castiel informed the hunter. "Mr. Holmes is extra-sane, if I may use laymen's terms, and Captain Watson has a perfectly average IQ level and a sound mind."

Dean groaned. Seriously,  _his life_ …

That was when the man ran up. He had scruffy brown hair that stuck up in a stubborn refusal to bend to the will of gravity, a long coat, and a rather nice pinstriped suit, complete with vest.

"I'm sorry--have any of you seen a blonde girl, human, wearing a red top and a jacket, rather attractive?" The man asked a bit desperately.

Dean frowned. "What's her cup size?"

The man frowned. "Going by human cup sizes I'd say a C."

"Nope. Haven't seen her." Dean shook his head.

Sam promptly gave his brother a smack upside the back of the head. Watson merely raised his eyebrows, and Castiel seemed too busy watching for possible danger to be paying attention.

"You are a Time Lord, then?" Sherlock asked.

"A what?" Everyone except for the strange man chorused. Everyone then proceeded to stare at each other with annoyance.

"A Time Lord," Sherlock repeated.

"Why, as a matter of fact, yes. You can call me Doctor, if you'd like," The Doctor replied, smiling.

"Sherlock–-you know what, I don't want to know," Watson said, cutting himself off.

"Mycroft has some rather interesting files," Sherlock said to his companion. "There's this one on a group called Torchwood that's rather interesting…"

Watson rubbed his temples. He was beginning to feel a headache come on.

Sam cleared his throat. "Guys? Zombies? Running? Five minute time limit?"

"That rhymed," The Doctor informed him cheerily.

Sam wondered if maybe this were all some kind of fever dream. They'd ganked some witches last week--had he unwittingly been dosed with something?

"Mycroft will be eager to speak with you," Sherlock informed the Doctor.

"Yes, well, I'm rather not eager to speak with him. I have to find Rose," The Doctor replied. "I'm speaking with Sherlock, I presume?"

"Unfortunately," Watson muttered.

"Mycroft told you about me?" Sherlock asked.

"Well… yes and no. We've met before. In my past and your future." The Doctor waved it off. "Time--it's a confusing ball of wibbly-wobblyness."

"Try me," Sherlock challenged.

"Guys! Zombies! Escaping! Does this ring any bells?" Sam shouted.

"Doctor," Castiel said, frowning. "Doctor Who?"

"Precisely!" The Doctor said, grinning.

Castiel tilted his head, squinting a little. "You are not human," he announced flatly. "Are you another one of my Father's earlier experiments?"

"Hey… you said the girl was blonde, right?" Dean said.

"Yes," The Doctor said eagerly. "Why?"

"She's dead," Dean announced in a tone that was scarily similar to Castiel's. He pointed up at a building.

The others all followed his finger to find a gigantic screen, much like the ones in Times Square, New York City. It was showing different scenes of zombie attacks around the world, including…

"And this was taken today in London. Viewer discretion is advised. Parents strongly cautioned."

The scene was similar to many found in horror films, except with ten times the gore. It was decidedly unsettling to see how the shuffling crowd of undead, moving at a slow, jerky pace, came alive when they got their cold hands on a fresh body. There were two women, one on the plump side with awful dyed red hair, and the second with shoulder-length blonde hair and a soft but fit body. The larger woman was clearly unconscious. The blonde girl was not.

There was no sound but she was obviously struggling and probably screaming, her nails tearing at arms and faces as she writhed in the grip of the infected. They tore into her, blood pouring out of her from dozens of wounds. One of the zombies caught a hold of her wrist. The girl twisted and pulled, and then fell to the ground as her arm was literally torn clean off of her body.

She disappeared after that, hidden from view of the camera as the undead swarmed over her like ants.

"Meanwhile, over in Los Angeles, Justin Bieber was attacked while trying to escape in his infamous leopard-print car. The car was overturned and the windows were smashed, and we actually have a video showing how they ate his entrails while he was still alive…"

Everyone turned away from the massive screen, not caring about the overblown preteen idol. The Doctor stood there, his eyes hard and glittering, his entire face a strange hue that was not quite white, but not the normal pink-and-yellow, either.

"My sincere condolences," Castiel offered up.

Watson debated whether or not to put a hand on the man's shoulder.

Dean looked at Sam, who nodded.

"We know who did this," Dean said.

Everyone quickly glanced over at the brothers, except for the Doctor. He turned, slowly, pivoting on his heel, his gaze transfixing. The Winchesters didn't think they'd ever seen a more intense gaze, and they'd been up against the worst that Heaven, Hell, and everything in between had to offer.

"And we know where he is. And how to defeat him," Sam added quickly. "He's hiding out in Scotland."

"Are you seriously asking this man to go on a hunt for a criminal after he's lost his girlfriend?" Watson asked with horrified anger.

"John," Sherlock said warningly.

Watson glared at the Winchesters as he stormed over to Sherlock. The two began whispering.

"This is madness, Sherlock. Are you seriously…?"

"It's much more exciting than hiding out in a bunker with Mycroft. Just think, John--a worldwide infection started by just one man! Imagine!"

"That man is in shock."

"Then give him a blanket."

"Sherlock!"

"John." Sherlock's voice was soothing and brooked no argument. It was the voice of a judge delivering a sentence for which there would be no appeal. "When you were threatened by Moriarty… when he had Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade in his sights… do you think I wanted time to grieve?"

"Sherlock…"

"No. Listen. I wanted revenge. I wanted to make sure that no one was hurt by that spider ever again. This man is the same, John. Look at him. He needs a purpose. Let us give it to him. You can't grieve properly until you've given up the ghost, so to speak, and he hasn't. He's not going to until he gets revenge. Don't you see, John?" Sherlock sounded both pleading and excited. " _He's like me_."

"You know, I am a celestial being," Castiel said, gazing out into the distance. "I can hear you."

Both men ignored him, but Dean looked rather like he wanted to find a hole to crawl into.

Watson stared silently into his partner's face, his gaze soft but steady. "All right," he acquiesced. "But if you think that I'm going quietly, you've got another think coming. We still haven't properly introduced ourselves…"

"You are Captain John Hamish Watson, and that is your flatmate Mr. Sherlock Holmes, the world's only Consulting Detective," The Doctor announced. "I told you, we've met before. Well, my before. Your later."

"What the hell is a consulting detective?" Dean asked challengingly.

"So this man's in Scotland, you say?" The Doctor asked Sam as Dean and Sherlock began a heated glaring match.

"Yes. He's actually not a man at all, he's…" Sam was cut short as a chorus of moans sounded from down the street.

"Time to run!" The Doctor announced. "This way, I think."

"This way," Sherlock interrupted, heading down an alley.

"I love the running bit," The Doctor said enthusiastically.

"Oh great. Another health nut," Dean grumbled. "Sammy, I think we met your dream man."

"Sam is bisexual?" Castiel asked, confused.

"Son of a bitch, Cas, we have got to get you a course in Sarcasm 101."

Up ahead, the Doctor was saying something about Prime Ministers and… what was that word? Slitheen?

"Not only are we in the middle of a demon-created zombie apocalypse," Dean groused. "But we have to deal with these weirdos."

"I am an angel, and you two hunt various monsters including shifters and demons," Castiel pointed out. "I think that most people would consider us 'weirdos'."

"Yeah," Dean grinned. "But we're the sexy kind."


	3. Chapter 3

Rose frantically yanked, trying to get her hand out from under the unconscious woman. "Doctor!" She shouted.

"Rose!" His voice was faint and she could tell that he was starting to worry. "Rose Tyler!"

"Doctor!" She screamed. The moans were closer now.

Rose planted a foot on the woman and pushed, trying to extricate herself. She was buffeted on all sides by frantic, scrambling people. "Doctor!" She screamed again.

She remembered a news report about the rising rate of obesity in the nation, and she laughed derisively.

"Wake up, c'mon, wake up," she shouted at the woman, pushing with all of her might.

"Here!"

Someone was at her side, appearing out of nowhere from the sea of humanity. It was a girl, about a year or two younger than Rose, with blonde hair and big blue eyes. "I'll roll her over, yeah?" She said, crouching down and starting to shove the woman.

Rose noticed that they were wearing the same jacket, and grinned. "Marks and Spencer's?" She asked, indicating the jacket with her free hand.

The girl laughed. "Yeah. Real original, aren't we?"

It was a moment of normalcy in a swirl of anxious horror. The girl shoved, muttering something about "fat cows" and Rose pushed with her foot.

The woman rolled onto her side, and Rose yanked her hand free. The girl cheered, and then they both started as they heard the moans.

The undead weren't more than five feet away.

In their shock they let go of the woman and she rolled back over onto her face, and the girl gave a little cry. Rose stared, not sure if she should laugh or cry.

Now the other girl's hand was stuck.

The moans came again, deafening, seeping into their very bones.

Rose started to grab the woman, but the girl stopped her.

"No time. Go!" The girl shoved Rose away from the direction of the infected. "Go!"

Survival instinct took over and Rose started to run.

"Motherfucking bastards! You mother–" The girl's angry shouts descended into frantic screams, and Rose swore she could hear ripping flesh.

She had to get off of the streets.

Ducking and weaving, Rose made her way to the door of the nearest high-rise. It was an office building, which was probably a good thing. Most people would be hiding out in an apartment building, not staying cooped up in their office. They'd want to find their families, make sure that everyone was okay.

Rose paused, staring at the directory. Should she go to the basement or the roof? Which one was safer?

The zombies hadn't appeared to have much hand-eye coordination, never mind running, so they probably couldn't go up stairs very easily… but they could fall  _down_  stairs.

Up to the roof it was.

As she ran up the stairs (she was not chancing the elevator) of the H. C. Clements office building, Rose thought back to the girl. They'd been so alike, liking the same jacket, about the same age, and she felt almost as though she were living a stolen life. That girl had given her life in exchange for Rose's, and Rose didn't even know her name.

Her hand twitched, instinctively seeking out someone that was not there. She had to get out of this mess.

She had to find the Doctor.

* * *

"So who is this person?" Watson asked. "Why'd he start this whole thing?"

"Crowley is not a person, but a demon," Castiel informed him. "One of the most powerful and depraved of Hell's spawn."

"Quite a flair for the dramatics, haven't you?" Watson said lightly.

Castiel tilted his head with a frown. "I do not understand."

Watson cleared his throat and concentrated on looking for zombies. They weren't quite out of London yet, and judging by the abandoned cars choking the Green Belt, there could be Zekes (as Dena had dubbed them) anywhere.

But this Castiel person… Honestly, and he'd thought Sherlock was socially impaired…

Speaking of Sherlock…

"How did this Crowley individual start the virus?" Sherlock asked.

"How do you know it's a virus?" Sam asked. "It could be a bacterial infection…"

"It's a virus," Sherlock said decisively. "The infection is not transmitted via fluids, nor is it airborne. It can only be gained through a bite or by getting fluids or blood on an open wound. Infection takes twenty-four hours."

"Let's try this again," Sam said. "How do you know all of this?"

"Observation. You people never pay attention to anything you see, it's like the visual receptors in your brains are broken or something."

"Sherlock," Watson said wearily, "Do me a favor and please don't alienate our companions." He pulled out his phone to check it. "Still no word from Mrs. Hudson. She promised she'd call when she reached her sister's."

"I'm sure she simply forgot. It's rather easy for people to lose track of things when they're panicking," Sherlock said with an air that clearly stated he was not one to panic. "Have you heard from Lestrade at all?"

"No, but it's nice of you to ask," Watson replied.

"Oh, I don't care, I just wanted to know if Anderson was infected," Sherlock said with something akin to glee. "He's practically the walking dead anyway, what with his level of stupidity, but all the same…"

Watson heaved a sigh worthy of any martyr, ignoring the odd looks that everyone was giving his flatmate. "Sherlock, that's rather heartless."

"I'm surprised you still expect anything else by this point," Sherlock replied.

"Kinda reminds you of Cas in the beginning," Sam whispered to Dean.

Dean looked positively affronted that his angel was being compared to the borderline sociopath they were forced to deal with.

"If we could all focus for a moment," The Doctor said, "And get back to the task at hand. Are you certain this man is a legitimate demon and not, say, an alien life form?"

"Trust me," Dean said, "We're certain."

"You can tell a demon by several subtle but distinctive identifying traits, starting with–"

This time Dean succeeded in getting his hand over Cas's mouth in time to stop the flow of words. The angel's electric blue eyes narrowed, making him look like a rather grumpy cat.

"How, then, did this virus come about?" The Doctor asked. This whole thing would have been terribly exciting under normal circumstances, but under normal circumstances he would have been able to share this with Rose.

"It's a curse, actually," Sam hastened to explain.

Both Sherlock and the Doctor looked rather incredulous. Watson blinked at how scarily similar they both looked. He dearly hoped that the Doctor wasn't too much like Sherlock; one consulting detective was enough to deal with, thank you.

"It's a kind of worldwide plague, similar to the Plagues of Egypt--in fact, it's called the Eleventh Plague, and rumor has it that God once considered raising the first-born sons that He'd taken in the Tenth Plague back from the dead to devour their own families but was persuaded against it."

"That was an interesting board meeting," Castiel noted.

"You guys had board meetings?" Dean asked. "No wonder you had such a stick up your ass."

"Still do, sometimes," Cas said dryly.

That shut Dean up pretty quickly.

Watson pretended he hadn't heard that comment.

"Dean and I are hunters; we basically take down bad guys like demons," Sam said, glossing over their background for lack of time. "Castiel here has been our friend,"

"Friend?" Sherlock asked, looking at Dean.

Both Watson and Castiel grabbed each of Dean's wrists to keep him from punching the detective. The angel and the doctor sent each other  _can you believe these two_  looks.

"Friend," Sam said, trying to keep them on track. Honestly, dealing with Lucifer, Mr. Pop Culture References Within Pop Culture References was easier than this group of crazies. (He loved his brother but seriously, Dean was a little crazy.) "Basically we were trying to kill Crowley, this extremely powerful demon that's been a real pain in our asses for the past few years. We knew he was up to something but we didn't know exactly what it was until we cornered him. He started this whole curse thing using a stolen tablet of God-"

"Which he shouldn't have been able to get his hands on in the first place…" Castiel grumbled, like a cat that had its ball of yarn taken away for no good reason whatsoever.

"And transported himself to somewhere in Scotland," Sam finished.

"Transported?" The Doctor asked eagerly. "How did he manage that? He doesn't have something called a TARDIS by any chance?"

"A what?" Dean asked.

"Is that a Time And Relative Dimension In Space?" Sherlock asked.

The Doctor looked about as dumbfounded as the others. "How'd you know that?" He asked.

"Mycroft's files," Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock, when this is all over we are having a serious discussion," Watson warned him.

"About my keeping secrets from you?"

"About you going through your brother's briefcase while he's over for tea."

"You honestly can't expect him to bring it and not have me take a look."

"Yes, I can. It's called being polite."

"Now, John…"

Sam cleared his throat loudly. The two arguing men turned and looked at him with impatience.

"The problem is," Sam continued, as if there had been no interruption, "For some reason Cas here can't transport us to where Crowley is."

"He has somehow managed to block anything from transporting in or out of Scotland," Castiel explained.

"So we have to get there on foot. And when we don't know exactly where he is…"

"I can find out," Sherlock said, cutting Sam off midsentence.

"Oh, really?" Dean said, challenging. "And how would you manage that?"

Sherlock frowned. "I'll need access to a computer--a proper one, not one of those dinosaurs from a library. And some more details about your 'demon'." The last word had air quotes implied.

"Well how are we going to get that?" Dean argued.

"I have state-of-the-art computers on my ship," The Doctor said eagerly.

"Excellent." Sherlock turned to him. "Where is it?"

The Doctor's smile faltered. "Um… it's currently parked in a Henrik's department store in Covent Garden."

Both Watson and Sam groaned aloud.

"But," The Doctor went on, "That's all right."

"No, it's not," Watson muttered.

"We need to get up to Scotland anyway, right?" The Doctor explained. "So why don't we head up there and stop in the nearest town along the way? We'll stick along the coast, fewer people on the east side."

"Where's the first big town?" Sam asked.

"Cambridge," said Sherlock, just as the Doctor answered with, "Peterborough."

The two men arched their eyebrows at each other.

"You sure you two weren't separated at birth?" Watson asked, not entirely joking.

"Cambridge is a university town," The Doctor argued.

"But Peterborough is farther away, and in a university town there are bound to be laptops everywhere," Sherlock insisted.

The Doctor considered this. "I suppose it would work."

"How are we going to set out when we have no supplies?" Dean argued. "We have no idea how far away this place is."

"It's England, Dean," Sam grinned. "Everything's close together."

"It shouldn't take us more than a few hours," The Doctor estimated.

Dean made sure he had his weapons on him. "There better be a place that serves pie," he muttered as they set off.

* * *

Rose panted as she approached the top floor. How many levels did this company need, anyway? Did they  _really_  need two HR departments? And why did that one temp worker's cubicle have so many pictures of wedding dresses?

At least the bloody coffee machine worked. Rose took a much-needed ten-minute break to fix herself a nice, thick cup. She added an extra scoop to the mixture, as well, just to give her that extra jolt to stay awake.

So far, things had gone all right. No undead wandering the halls, no blood smearing the walls, no bodies on the floor. It appeared that Rose had been right in her assumption that everyone had hurried home.

God, that was good coffee. The TARDIS made the best coffee in the universe (and Rose knew that for a fact, because she had tried coffee in 53 million different places), but this wasn't too bad. Not bad at all, in fact.

As Rose set the drained cup down, she could feel her nerves settling. She was certain that everything would work out; it always did, in the end. The Doctor was surely off somewhere finding a way to fix this madness, and she'd be back with him before the day was up.

She hoped that he wasn't worried about her. He always acted like he wasn't but after their ordeal with the Satan Pit and whatever Beast had lurked in there, he'd been awfully protective.

And lately, when she'd tried to press him about what she'd done as Bad Wolf… well, he'd told her about Jack and Bad Wolf and all but he was hiding something; something important. He'd never kept anything from her before.

If he was doing it to try and protect her she was going to punch his pretty boy face until he regenerated.

Feeling rejuvenated and much more optimistic about the circumstances, Rose turned around.

And found herself staring into the barrel of a pistol.

"Don't… move…" The man said. His hand was shaking and Rose could see the frantic look in his eyes. "Are you infected?"

"D'you see the zombies going to get a cuppa?" Rose asked in return.

"Are you bitten?" The man asked. "It can take a while for you to feel it."

Rose took off her jacket and held up her arms, showing the bare, unmarred skin. "I'm all clean, see?"

The man nodded, looking relieved.

"Now what d'you say we put down the gun there, and you tell me your name?" Rose said calmly, placing her hand on the gun and lowering it. "I'm Rose Tyler."

"Rus. I'm Rus," the man said, relaxing.

"That's a nice name," Rose said reassuringly. "Are you alone here, then?"

"No. My mate Steve's here--he's a temp, new, real cut up about it all. And there's Tegan. She's a tough one, she is. A few others, but they're from a few levels down. I don't know them too well."

Rose nodded. "Why don't you take me to them, yeah? We can make coffee, if you'd like. There's plenty."

"Yeah," Rus snorted. "One of the guys here's a real addict. Got his girlfriend on it, too."

Rose nodded politely. "I see. Right." She grabbed some mugs from the cupboard and began to scoop out the coffee grounds.

Once the coffee was made and the milk and sugar procured, Rus led Rose down a few hallways until they reached an inner office, right in the center of the floor. Rus knocked three times, then waited.

"It's me," he told them. "No need to worry, I've picked up a stray."

The door was opened a crack and someone--Rose couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman--peered out. "She clean?"

"She can answer for herself," Rose said. "And she's bringing you coffee so you might want to let her in, yeah?"

The door was pulled open and Rose could see that it was an Indian woman, wearing a crisp suit but with the traditional bindi on her forehead and a small diamond stud for a nose piercing.

"I'm sorry," the woman apologized. She had a London accent but her inflections reflected her heritage. "One cannot be too careful."

"It's all right," Rose assured her. "Mind helping me with this?"

"I'm Tegan," the woman introduced herself, helping Rose hand out coffee to the ten or so people holed up in the office.

"Rose," Rose replied. "Nice to meet you, I guess." She looked around. "Any weapons besides Rus's pistol?"

"I'm afraid not," Tegan replied. "Why?"

An idea was forming in Rose's head, a way for her to help with the situation and possibly be reunited with the Doctor.

"I need your help," Rose said. "I know it's a lot to ask, but I have to get to Downing Street."

"Why would you want to go there? The government's in shambles," a young man with straw-blonde hair and a hooked nose, probably Steve, asked.

"I need to speak with the Prime Minister," Rose informed them. "Harriet Jones."


	4. Chapter 4

Rose had thought getting to Downing Street in traffic was bad, but that was nothing compared to trying to reach it while fighting panicked humans and moaning zombies.

This situation was five kinds of ridiculous.

In fact, it was almost as ridiculous as the fact that she was currently beating a zombie to death… um… un-death, with a fire extinguisher.

As the first lurching ghoul had opened its mouth wide she'd inserted the nozzle, turning on the extinguisher and literally blasting its brains out. She had a much greater appreciation for fire safety people now.

But, having eventually run out of foam, she was resorting to using the canister as a baseball bat. Who knew human skulls were so hard to crack?

"The Doctor better appreciate this," she muttered as she got more guts splattered onto her shirt. She looked utterly disgusting, she was sure.

The zombie's head caved in with an awful squelching noise, and gray chunks of brain exploded all over her face, some landing in her hair.

The TARDIS was going to owe her the best bloody shower of her life. Not a shower of blood, that is. She meant…

You know what? Never mind.

Seeing as the fire extinguisher was dented beyond all use, Rose threw it with all of her might at three approaching zombies, knocking them down like bowling pins. Thanks to their tenuous balance and almost nonexistent motor skills, the zombies were surprisingly easy to knock off their feet. Rose leapt carefully in between the fallen undead, nimbly avoiding their snapping, gnashing teeth.

All of that running with the Doctor was definitely paying off.

"Come on!" She bellowed. The group of office workers was doing admirably, moving slowly but surely back to back down the clogged streets. As if the undead weren't bad enough, the screaming, panicking humans weren't helping matters. A part of Rose wanted to help them, but she knew that it would be best if she could complete her mission. If they tried to help others, they'd just end up dead themselves.

Still, she knew she'd be hearing their screams in her nightmares for a long time. Rose grabbed the arm of the zombie trying to attack her, wrenching the arm out of its socket and beating the zombie with it.

"We're here!" Steve bellowed.

Rose paused and looked up; sure enough, 10 Downing Street was in front of them. "C'mon!" She yelled, dashing up the steps.

"Hey!" She shouted, banging furiously on the door. "Hey! Let us in! Hey!" She couldn't see it, but she knew there was a camera around here somewhere, showing the guards who she was. "It's me! Rose! Rose Tyler! I need to speak to the PM! Let us in! Hey!"

The door was opened inwards, and Rose found that she had, in banging, put her entire weight on it. She fell forward, her new friends falling with her until they were all sprawled in an undignified heap on the floor. The door was closed behind them and the moans, screams, and other sounds of pandemonium on the street were muffled so well they could barely be heard.

Rose looked up, peering through her hair, which had fallen into her face. She realized that there was a bloody fingernail snared in her hair, and she grimaced.

"Rose?"

Harriet Jones was standing in front of her, looking concerned. "My dear, how are you?"

"Fine!" Rose scrambled to her feet. "Is the Doctor here?"

Harriet frowned. "No. I thought he would be with you."

"We got separated." Rose noticed the other members of her group hurrying to their feet, and introduced them. "I thought you might need help in dealing with the situation, and well, I did kind of help before, so…"

"Of course!" Harriet smiled. "Any help would be appreciated. We're a little overwhelmed as you can see. But first…" She grimaced. "How about we get you all into the shower."

Rose couldn't agree more.

* * *

He'd checked the bakeries.

He'd checked the trendy little cafés.

He'd checked the pubs.

Nothing.

Son of a bitch…

"You have  _got_  to be shitting me!" Dean shouted in complete frustration as he stormed into the coffee shop where everyone else was crowded. Sherlock was sitting on a chair, a stolen laptop on the table. Sam and Watson were crouched over either of Sherlock's shoulders. Sam was pointing things out and discussing things with the Doctor, while Watson murmured things like, "Brilliant" under his breath. Cas was sitting quietly in a chair on the opposite side of the table, watching the others. Everyone was ignoring the dead bodies on the floor.

They all looked up at Dean's exclamation.

"What?" Cas tilted his head, puzzled.

"More Walkers?" The Doctor asked, hurrying up.

"There is not a single place in this damn town that serves regular, normal, good old-fashioned pie!" Dean said despairingly. "What the hell are you people doing stuffing pie with  _meat_ , anyway? What is  _wrong_  with you!?"

"I think he's cracked," Watson observed.

"It took him thirty years to crack in Hell," Castiel replied. "I doubt that Dean has truly lost his mind."

Watson decided it was better not to ask.

"Finished," Sherlock declared. He pointed at the screen. "We need to travel up the coast here. We can hit Newcastle-Upon-Tyne for restocking of supplies, but we'll need to stay away from most populated areas."

"That'll be difficult," The Doctor noted. "It's a gauntlet between Glasgow and Edinburgh."

"Where are we headed, exactly?" Watson inquired.

"Glenmore Forest Park," Sherlock and the Doctor said at once. They glared at each other.

"How'd you figure that's our destination?" Dean asked.

Sam gestured at Castiel, who had picked up a book on Latin from where a dead student had been clutching it and was now reading it avidly.

Dean sighed. "Yeah, but how  _exactly–_ "

A chorus of moans interrupted him.

"Sounds like the student body," The Doctor noted.

"Was that a joke?" Sam asked.

They all turned and peered out the café, instinctively recoiling (yes, even Sherlock) at the sight of the several dozen zombies headed directly towards them.

"Time to go I think," The Doctor said.

They hurried out of the shop, with the exception of Castiel who continued reading obviously. Once they got outside Dean halted, looking back at the shop door.

"Son of a…"

Dean ran back in, yanked Castiel up by the collar (the angel yelped indignantly), and dragged him outside to join the others.

"There's too many of them," Sherlock noted calmly.

"It's rather disturbing that you're not affected by this information," John replied.

"We'll just have to split up," The Doctor decided.

"Perfect," Sherlock declared. "John and I will go left."

Dean frowned. "Now hold on a second cheekbones–"

The zombies drew closer, which didn't help the situation any.

"Not much time to argue about this, guys!" Sam warned.

"Okay," The Doctor said, pointing at each of them. "Antisocial detective with his hedgehog, boyfriends go together, and I'll team up with the moose."

"I have a n–" Sam frowned. "Okay, is it the sideburns?"

"Yes," Dean, the Doctor, and Sherlock chorused.

"I plead the fifth," Castiel said dryly.

"Zombies!" John shouted in exasperation.

"Right. That. Split up, and we'll meet on the opposite side of town!" The Doctor said. "Allons-y!"

He took off. Sam shrugged and ran after him. All those mornings jogging were paying off.

"That's our queue. John?" Sherlock took off in the opposite direction.

"Meet up with you later," John told Dean and Castiel, and hurried after Sherlock.

"Guess it's just you and me, Cas," Dean turned around and felt a hand on his shoulder.

"Oh, hell n–"

Castiel zapped them to the opposite side of town.


	5. Chapter 5

They had made it to the opposite side of town and John knew they'd be meeting back up with the others soon. That is, unless they'd been devoured by zombies. Which would have been a shame in John's mind, but he wasn't all too sure that Sherlock felt the same way. He could feel his best friend next to him, quietly seething.

"Out with it," John said.

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock replied.

So this was how they were going to play it? Drawing the truth out, bit by bit like bits of paper from a choked throat?

"What's made you all…" John floundered for words, because the phrase  _prickly, antisocial and bloody annoying_  could very well describe Sherlock on a good day. Instead he waved his arm at Sherlock's person.

"The English language consists of over ten thousand words, John. Use them."

"What is it with you and Dean Winchester?" John asked, seeing no other option but to get to the heart of the issue.

"He's stubborn to the point of stupidity, refuses to consult anyone else about his plans, rushes headlong into things without thinking or assessing the situation and has social issues."

John gaped. "Sherlock…" He rubbed his forehead, sighing. "I really hate to be the one to break it to you, but you just described yourself."

Sherlock seemed to actually contemplate this for a moment. One thing that John was could take comfort in--his friend might completely ignore everyone else, but if John said something Sherlock did tend to listen.

"Possibly," Sherlock concluded. "But I am far more intelligent."

John let out a groan.

* * *

Meanwhile, a few blocks away…

"Stubborn, ignorant, cocky, Mr. I Know Everything…" Dean complained savagely.

"Are you beating yourself up again?" Cas asked.

"No," Dean replied, the  _asshole_  quickly bitten back and swallowed. "That detective."

"Sherlock Holmes?" Cas offered.

"Yeah," Dean growled. "Thinks he's the expert and we have to do it his way, no respect, and I have no idea what the fuck's going on with him and that doctor…"

"Which one?"

"The one who actually has a name; John."

Cas blinked a couple of times, then tilted his head. Dean shifted uncomfortably. "What?" He asked.

"Nothing," Cas said.

"C'mon, Cas. Spit it out."

"I do not wish to offend you, Dean," Cas began.

"That means I should ignore about half of our first conversations…"

"But you have heard the expression of the kettle calling itself black to the pot?"

"It's 'the pot calling the kettle black,' Cas, and–-hey, wait just a fucking minute!"

* * *

"Rose, huh?" Sam asked.

The Doctor looked at him sideways.

"Sorry." Sam cleared his throat. "It's just… Jess, was her name."

The Doctor's puzzled expression was definitely comical. Sam held back his laugh.

"No, uh, I mean, I lost a girl too."

"She died?"

He nodded. "It was a long time ago, but… it still hurts, sometimes." Sam shrugged. "Just wanted to let you know. You're not the only one."

The Doctor made a noise. At first Sam thought it was a snort or maybe a bitten-back sob, but then the Doctor's mouth opened and Sam realized that he was  _laughing._

"What's so damn funny?" Sam asked.

"You humans." The Doctor shook his head. "Humans, and every other male in the universe. No matter what species we are, we just can't work it out, can we?"

Sam grinned. "Not according to the women, anyway."

"To hear them tell it, we're idiots."

Sam started chuckling. "Tell me, were you never able to get the  _does this make me look fat_  question right?"

"Rassilon, don't remind me about that. And then there's when you meet her mother."

Sam started laughing harder, and the Doctor followed suit, until they couldn't speak anymore and were laughing hysterically, leaning against the side of the building. They were still in that position, in fact, when Dean, Castiel, John and Sherlock found them.

"What the hell happened to you two?" Dean asked.

"I think they might have succumbed to a slight mental breakdown brought on by–"

"Oh shut it, Encyclopedia Britannica."

Tears were leaking out of the corners of Sam's eyes, his chest was aching, and he could hardly breathe. He hadn't laughed like this in ages. He hadn't thought about Jess in ages.

But hey, it was the apocalypse. What on earth were you supposed to do?

* * *

Apparently, they were supposed to fight zombies.

Now that they were out of Cambridge and on the motorway (or highway, depended on who you were asking), the zombies were fewer but still a definite presence.

"Motorway?" Dean asked as he gave a zombie a front-kick that sent it sprawling. "Why the hell would you call it a motorway?"

"Because 'highway' makes so much more sense," Sherlock sniped back, pulling a judo move and managing to twist a zombie's spine in half.

"If you two don't quit arguing," John said, his teeth gritted as he drove a spare tire iron they'd found through a zombie's eye socket, "Then I'm going to tie you both up and let the walkers at you."

The doctor's tone was nothing short of deadly. Dean shut up because he'd heard Cas use that tone and knew it meant  _very angry boyfriend_. Sherlock shut up because he knew John always kept his word.

"One thing I don't understand," The Doctor began.

" _One thing_?" Dean grunted.

The Doctor ignored the interruption. "One thing I don't understand is how these creatures–"

"Walkers," John and Sam corrected.

"–are able to function without breathing," The Doctor finished. He used his sonic screwdriver in a surprisingly deadly maneuver to fry out a zombie's brain. "Doesn't everything on this planet need oxygen to survive?"

"They're already dead, Doc, we went over this," Dean groused.

"It's 'Doctor'," The Doctor corrected. He dispatched the final zombie by punching it to the ground and then jumping on its head repeatedly.

Panting, everyone looked around.

"Think we're good for now?" John asked.

A piercing, feminine scream rent the air.

"Oh, what  _now_?" Sherlock snapped.

"Someone's in trouble!" Sam said, hurrying after the sound.

"Most likely a woman. I seem to rescue a lot of those," The Doctor noted. "Allons-y!"

"Stop saying that!" Sherlock said.

They all took off save for Dean, who was leaning forward with his hands on his knees.

"Maybe you should have gone running in the mornings with Sam?" Castiel noted.

"Hey, I didn't hear you complaining about my athleticism last week," Dean replied.

They followed their companions, albeit at a much slower pace.

* * *

Before we continue, let's get a few things straight.

Sam Winchester is not a sleaze.

He's not a player.

And he's not a Don Jon.

That's Dean's job.

But you try being a red-blooded male who's had a dry spell of almost a year, and a painful breakup right before said dry spell, and not be a little desperate by the end of things.

Not easy, is it?

So you all can just take your accusing looks and go shove 'em up your asses. Or you can just laugh. Dean certainly was. Snickering behind his hand. Just because the guy had his own steady supply didn't give him the right to laugh at other people's…

Oh, forget it.

Look, he needed to get laid, okay? Is that really too much to ask? It's a freakin' zombie apocalypse. You'd think he'd find  _someone_.

At least Cas has finally stopped asking what was wrong with him. Dean's innuendos were flying way over the angel's head. And Sherlock's, too, thank God. But Dean's talk kept making Watson have a coughing fit.

His brother can take some getting used to.

So, when you all sit there with your Judgy McJudgerson faces on, remember that it's been a while and ask yourself if you wouldn't have tried anything, either. Okay? Okay.

Sam reached the source of the scream first, but he could feel the Doctor right behind him. (The guy had an unusually high body temperature.) The reason for the screaming was a rather attractive brunette, trapped in a car with several zombies crawling at the windows, moaning and drooling as they tried to get at the delicious flesh inside.

"Hey!" Sam shouted.

In retrospect this was probably not the smartest idea.

The zombies turned towards him, their jaws hanging slack, moans continuously emanating from their loose throats. A few of them didn't  _have_  throats.

"Right," Sam said. "Usual technique?"

"You mean make it up as we go along?" The Doctor asked.

"Yeah. That."

The Doctor shrugged. "All right then."

The four others joined them just in time for the fight to begin in earnest.

"Seriously?" Dean asked. "Didn't we  _just–_ "

"Please complain later," Castiel requested as he smote a zombie.

"John!" Sherlock called. "I need you to grab this walker at the neck from behind and twist it off."

"What? Sherlock, that's disgusting."

"Well it's either that or let it bite my arm off. I'm only just holding it at bay and it's rather strong so if you wouldn't mind…"

"All right, fine!"

John ran around and grabbed the zombie accosting Sherlock by the back of the neck, twisting it and snapping the neck as requested. And, as Sherlock had predicted, the head popped off. The body of the zombie fell to the ground, but the jaw of the head continued snapping menacingly.

"Well, this definitely makes it into the top ten…" John muttered, staring down at the zombie head in his hands. "Hey, Sherlock!" He held up the head and struck a dramatic pose. "Alas, poor Yorick…"

"John, do stop playing around. A walker is about to bite you in the shoulder," Sherlock observed.

John gave a rather undignified yelp and dodged the zombie, lobbing the zombie head at his attacker. The zombie went down like a bowling pin.

"I think that's the last of them!" The Doctor announced.

There was a moan from under his foot, and he stomped down on the zombie head. "There now,  _that's_  the last of them."

Dean silently counted up the zombies, but gave up after reaching twenty and realizing that he'd been counting disembodied limbs as well.

Sam, meanwhile, ran around to the other side of the car and opened the door, yanking the traumatized woman out. She proceeded to cling to him and cry.

"Are you okay?" He asked. "Are you bitten?"

The woman shook her head. "N-no. T-thank you, thank you so much. I don't know what I would have done if–"

"It's okay," Sam said, reassuring her. "You're with us now, we'll take care of you."

She continued to cling to him as he led her around to the others, where she was subject to a rather embarrassing series of observations from Sherlock before John elbowed the detective rather painfully in the stomach.

"Thank you," the woman told them. "Really." She smiled up at Sam. "I'm incredibly lucky that you came along."

Dean rolled his eyes, which caused Castiel to elbow the hunter rather painfully in the stomach.

"You can come with us, if you'd like," Sam said. "We wouldn't mind."

"Yes, we would," Sherlock refuted.

Sam glared at him.

"I'm quite used to suddenly having people follow me around in times of crisis," The Doctor noted. "What's one more?"

"Was that an attempt at humor?" Castiel whispered to Dean.

"I have no fucking clue," Dean answered honestly.

"That's quite all right," The woman said. "My boyfriend has a country home only a few miles from here. It's where I was headed to meet with him when I got trapped. I should be fine if I take the back roads, right?"

Sam visibly deflated.

"Sure," The Doctor said.

"Here, take this," John said, handing her his tire iron. "Aim for the head."

"Thank you!" The woman finally let go of Sam and beamed at them. "And good luck!"

She set off, and Dean sauntered up to Sam, clapping him on the shoulder. "Better luck with the next damsel, eh Sammy?"

Sam punched him, very hard, in the shoulder.

"Well," John said, inspecting his bloody hands and arms and grimacing. "Now what do we do?"

"We head north," The Doctor replied.

The rest of the group nodded, and they headed out.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realized I should probably explain the timelines to avoid confusion. This story takes place before "Doomsday" in the Doctor's timeline, in between seasons two and three of Sherlock (because Season Three hadn't aired when I started writing this), and in between seasons seven and eight of Supernatural because anything after season seven I'm pretending never happened.

They managed to make substantial process, although tangling with zombies became a regular occurrence. They took turns keeping watch at night, and paired up for supply runs. It was taking a hell of a lot longer than usual since they were on foot, but they managed to reach Edinburgh without any major incidents.

Although their gut-covered clothes would have been completely beyond repair if it weren't for the cleaning powers of angel mojo.

It was during one of the aforementioned supply runs that Castiel and John found themselves near the Edinburgh Zoo. The gates were locked, but the screams of panic from animals--and the moans of zombies--could be heard inside.

Castiel paused, staring at the gates. John paused as well, frowning. "You all right?" He asked.

Castiel didn't exactly frown, but his face gave the impression of sadness and confliction. John had quickly learned that while the angel was quite willing to answer any theological question, he wasn't very knowledgeable in the ways of socialization or facial expressions.

"My father's creations are in there, in pain," Castiel began slowly. "I hate to feel their suffering."

"You can  _feel_  it?" John gaped.

"If I wish to," Castiel replied. "Angels can read the minds and emotions of all creatures, should they choose."

The two men stared at the gates for a minute in contemplation. It would be risky, sure, and Sherlock would probably kill him, but…

"Are there any animals that we can save?" John asked.

"Theoretically all of them," Castiel said. "We would just have to open their enclosures, allowing them the chance to escape."

They contemplated the gates for another moment.

"We'll just have to be careful," John decided.

Castiel nodded gravely. "Very."

It took them several decapitations, a few bashed-in skulls, a couple of crazed gorillas, and one memorable multiple-zombie-death-by-elephant-trampling, but they managed to unlock the majority of the gates to the zoo.

They were in the Australian section when Castiel paused again. John ran on ahead, glad to be home free and hoping Sherlock wouldn't completely bite his head off for taking so long, only to realize that his companion wasn't next to him anymore. He turned around to see Castiel standing by an exhibit, holding something furry in his arms.

"Castiel?" John hurried back over. "Is everything all right?"

Upon getting closer, he could see that the animal in Castiel's arms was small and furry, with short, dark brown fur, webbed feet, a flattened, furry tail and a flat, dark bill reminiscent of a duck. Its tiny, beady eyes blinked up at Castiel trustingly, and it was trembling all over.

"Is that a platypus?" John asked.

"It's terrified," Castiel intoned seriously, gently scratching at the creature's head.

John frowned. "Aren't those things supposed to be venomous?"

Castiel nodded. "He won't hurt me."

Sure enough, the platypus seemed quite content to bury itself in the angel's arms, getting his trenchcoat wet.

"Um, all right," John said slowly, unsure how to process this information. "I'm not sure how the others would take it if we–"

The platypus growled at him, rather like a puppy. Castiel shushed it and made soothing cooing noises.

John sighed. The others were going to kill him for this.

"Okay, fine. We can take it back, but you have to explain this to your boyfriend… and Sherlock."

* * *

Dean openly stared. "What is that…" He paused, his forehead crinkling as he tried to find the words. "Thing?"

"It's a platypus, Dean," Castiel explained, holding the creature out so that the hunter could get a closer look. "We rescued it."

"We?" Sherlock looked over at Watson, who gave him a look that seemed to say  _yes, I was involved in this, now what are you going to do about it?_

"Why are you holding it?" Dean asked slowly, as if he was having trouble wrapping his head around what he was seeing.

"Because it was the fastest way to get it out of the infested area. The 'Zekes', as you call them, had already dispatched the rest of the zoo animals," Castiel said patiently.

Sherlock looked again at Watson. "John… is the angel," Dean's face tightened at the use of the title, "Correct? You two went into an infested area to save a platypus?"

"It wasn't on purpose, but yes, that's how it ended up," Watson replied. "Honestly, Sherlock, there's no reason to have an aneurysm."

"There damn well is!" Dean retorted. "Cas, what the hell were you thinking?"

Castiel cradled the platypus close to his chest, frowning. "I was thinking that I couldn't let the animals perish in cages with no chance of escaping. It would have been cruel to leave them sitting there."

Dean managed to keep up his glare for a total of thirty seconds before he heaved a sigh. "Okay, fine. We can keep it. But you have to take care of it."

"It's a him, and he says the zookeepers named him Irwin," Castiel replied, delicately stroking Irwin's bill with his index finger.

Dean threw his hands up in despair.

"John?" Sherlock asked. "You really participated in a ridiculous rescue mission to save this creature?"

"Sentiment, Sherlock. Just accept it," John answered, heading off to bed.

"Sentiment," Sherlock muttered, annoyed.

Sam and the Doctor watched the proceedings with interest, before the Doctor pulled a five-dollar bill out of his pocket.

"Told you Dean would give in," Sam said, triumphantly plucking the money from the Doctor's fingers.

"You're just lucky I have American money in this suit," The Doctor grumbled.

* * *

It was several hours later--during dinner, in fact--that Sam heard it.

They had broken into an abandoned house that, judging by the furniture and interior design, had previously been owned by an old, retired couple. It was in the middle of another argument between Dean and Sherlock and he was fiddling with the radio on the side mantle, all of the stations coming through as static, when he heard a voice. It was faint, but definitely there. Somehow, someone was getting a transmission through.

… _a headshot is the only way to kill them…_

It wasn't just a transmission; it was a recording.

"Guys!" Sam yelled, waving at them to shut up.

Everyone paused.

… _tell him I'll see him soon._

The Doctor frowned. "Who was that?" The voice sounded eerily familiar.

"Whoever it was, the transmission is finished," Sherlock noted.

"No,  _listen_!" Sam insisted. "It's on a loop--it'll start over in a moment. Listen!"

They all sat, ears straining, as the recording began to broadcast on the radio.

_If there's anyone out there, listen to this. It's important. My name is Rose Tyler…_

The Doctor launched himself forwards, knocking Watson and Dean to the floor, grasping the radio and clutching it in front of his face, drinking in every word.

… _and I'm stuck in London. The Prime Minister and the government are doing what they can, but you must know it'll be a while before we can manage too much. The infected are everywhere. Do not go into the city--repeat, do not go into the city. Stay indoors if you can. If you're in an infected area, don't stay. Move. Get out. Go visit your maiden aunt in St. Albans._

_A headshot is the only way to kill them. Use any weapon you have. Do not get bitten--if you're bitten, I'm so sorry but it's too late. Chills set in after about an hour, and a coma after about twenty hours. It only takes a day for them to rise again. If you are bitten, you must kill yourself. Cutting off an arm doesn't work._

She was alive. She was alive and saving the world and being his bright, precious Rose…

Rose detailed a few other survival tips, and then wrapped the thing up.

_And--this might sound odd, but please--if you are with a man calling himself the Doctor, then please tell him that I'm all right. I got out fine and I'm with some good people. I can't say where I am but I am in London. Tell him… tell him I'll see him soon._

The broadcast ended, static filling the air.

"It'll replay in a minute," Sam explained. "They must have tapped into a radio feed somehow and are playing it on a loop so that everyone can hear it."

The Doctor took the radio off the table, placing it in his lap and staring at it.

Rose. His Rose…

"Why don't we give him a moment," John murmured. He tugged gently on Sherlock's sleeve, leading the detective into the kitchen. Sam, Dean and Castiel followed suit, retreating quietly.

By the time they returned the Doctor was perfectly composed and finishing off the canned beans, but there was a rather snotty and soiled handkerchief sticking out of his trouser pocket.

* * *

John was feeding Irwin the platypus in the kitchen when Sherlock came in. It had taken a lot of effort but his flatmate had managed to pry the mammal out of Castiel's hands and had wrapped him up with a kitchen towel before placing him in what Sherlock assumed had once been the bed of the cat the house's owners had kept. John was completely absorbed in his task of feeding the creature nibbles and didn't notice the consulting detective until he was standing directly next to him.

"John."

John jerked up, realized who it was, and heaved a sigh. "Can you not do that, Sherlock?"

"My apologies," Sherlock replied automatically. "We need to discuss the events that led you to obtaining that… thing." He eyed Irwin, who hissed at him.

He hadn't known that a platypus could hiss. Interesting.

"What is there to talk about?" John asked.

"You went weaponless into an infected area, one that you knew was overrun by walkers–"

"It's  _fine_ , Sherlock."

"No, it's not. You could have been–"

"Killed, yes, but I wasn't!" John stood up, startling Irwin who made a growling puppy noise and burrowed further into his nest of kitchen towels. John took a deep breath, which Sherlock knew meant he was trying to remain calm.

"Sherlock, I was perfectly capable of taking care of myself before I met you, and I am still fully capable of it now."

"John, you should have consulted me–"

"Oh, because you consult me on everything you do!" John bellowed sarcastically.

"John, do be quiet. Zombies could hear you and track us."

"I don't care about–" John took another deep inhale through his nose. "Right. I'm going to bed, and you're going to stop talking."

"John–"

"Don't  _John_  me, Sherlock. I just–-I need some time to myself, all right? We can finish this argument in the morning."

John carefully tucked Irwin in, patting the little abomination on the head, and then stormed out of the room as quietly as possible.

"I didn't realize we were arguing," Sherlock noted to an empty room.

Irwin made a snuffling noise and blinked at him.

"Oh, do shut up."

* * *

Sherlock made his way up the stairs, towards the room designated as his and John's. They had all decided that since zombies had next to no motor skills, stairs would be an excellent deterrent and give them time to escape. So, upstairs sleeping quarters it was.

John was undoubtedly already asleep, or pretending to be, Sherlock mused. He noted the slight snoring coming from the former children's bedroom, which Sherlock guessed was saved for visits from grandchildren. There were two beds, with the Doctor and Sam Winchester each taking one. Sherlock wasn't overly fond of either of them, but he could work with them. They were, he supposed, tolerable.

The next room he passed--the master bedroom--had been claimed immediately by Dean by the use of 'dibs.' Naturally, the elder Winchester was sharing with Castiel.

The angel (if indeed he was an angel, which Sherlock still doubted) was a bit more difficult to read than most, but he was fine enough. The other hunter, however…

Let's just say that if the walkers got Dean Winchester, Sherlock wouldn't be shedding any tears.

Not that he shed a lot of tears anyway, but you get the picture.

To his surprise, the detective could hear talking as he passed their room. Their voices were low, but the door was open a crack and if he peered in, he could not only hear them distinctly but see them.

Dean was lying on his side, his hand outstretched towards Castiel, who was kneeling on the bed so that he loomed over Dean. The angel's face was blank, but Dean's… well, Sherlock had never expected the man to be capable of showing such gentleness. The detective had a feeling he'd walked into the tail end of a long conversation. Going by the stiff set of Castiel's shoulders and the apologetic look in Dean's eyes, it had probably been similar to the conversation that Sherlock had just had with John.

Sherlock watched as Dean cradled Castiel's face with his hand, stroking the angel's cheek with his thumb. Castiel leaned into the touch, his eyes closing softly.

"You're amazing, Cas," the hunter whispered, his voice hoarse. All biological signs pointed to the man trying not to cry, but Dean Winchester had never struck Sherlock as someone who cried. At least, not where others could see.

"Your faith in me is…"

"Unshakable." Dean finished the sentence for him, although Sherlock knew that was not how the angel had been intending to end his statement. "Now c'mon. I need my beauty sleep and I want you nearby. Can't have Zeke stealing you away."

Sherlock expected Castiel to respond with sarcasm, but the angel merely curled up with the hunter, back to chest. Even in the dark, the detective could see the two were holding hands.

The feeling stole over him, thick and bitter. He, the great Sherlock Holmes, was jealous of Dean Winchester. The uneducated blue-collar had somehow managed to summon the courage the consulting detective lacked and do what Sherlock had somehow failed in.

How had he done it?

It was a risky strategy, but seeing as their situation was already one fraught with death, he saw no reason not to attempt it.

In the morning, he would ask Dean Winchester for advice.

* * *

"Hey, Cas?"

"Hmm?"

"Is that eavesdropping bastard gone?"

"If by that you mean Sherlock Holmes, then yes. He has retired to bed."

Dean shifted so that he was propped up on his elbow, looking down at Cas. "You think he and his boyfriend had a fight?"

"They are not dating," Castiel corrected.

Dean snorted. "Could've fooled me."

"From what John told me while we were out today, I do not think he'd be opposed to it," Castiel reflected.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Trust me, Cas. If it hasn't happened yet, then it will soon."

Cas nodded, and then suddenly sat up, mashing their lips together. Dean responded instinctively, falling down on top of the angel and letting their tongues tangle before pulling back for air.

"I thought you were mad at me," he asked, confused. "I thought I was being overprotective and shortsighted."

"I was, and you were," Cas replied. He cocked his head. "Does that make you think that I love you any less?"

"Geez, Cas," Dean could feel his neck and cheeks heat up and knew he was blushing. "Don't just drop it on a guy like that."

"It's the truth," Cas replied. "Also, I would like to kiss you again."

Dean grinned. "Well, far be it from me to say no to that."

They kissed again, more gently this time, letting their fingers trail over each other's skin and map out the territory there. Dean inserted a knee between Cas's legs, slowly building up a rhythm until the angel couldn't focus anymore and was panting into the crook of Dean's neck. The hunter groaned, feeling the emotions wash over him along with the physical sensations.

"I love you too, Cas," he whispered. "You know that, right?"

Cas's answer was to dig his fingers into Dean's arms and back, holding on for dear life as they rocked and rocked and rocked into each other.

"Good," Dean whispered, and let go.

Sam was an absolute bitch about his interrupted sleep the next morning and the Doctor refused to speak to them (John apparently slept through the whole thing) but it was worth it for the loving, awestruck look in Cas's face afterwards.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The platypus, by the way, was the 'mascot' on the Zombie Dream Team thing that started all of this, and became an inside joke between myself and my friend. In case you were wondering how the hell a platypus got included in the story.

"Dean."

Dean turned, frowning as Sherlock approached him. They had set out early that morning, and despite the hunter's rumbling stomach the Doctor didn't seem eager to stop for a lunch break any time soon--not now that they were so close to their goal. The lack of food and yet another long day on the road was not exactly helping Dean's mood, and now cheekbones wanted to talk to him?

At least Cas was cheerful, thanks to the sex last night, not needing to eat or sleep, and having that damn platypus to cuddle in his arms all day like a damn teddy bear. (That is, when John wasn't the one cuddling the damn platypus. Dean was pretty sure there'd be a fight over ownership before long.)

"What do you want?" He asked, possibly a bit more irritated then the situation warranted.

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions," Sherlock responded conversationally.

That pinged a few alarm bells. Sherlock was never one for conversation.

"What about?" Dean asked, suspicious.

"You and your angel there," Sherlock said.

"He has a name."

"Castiel. You and him. How did you…?"

Dean frowned. "You wouldn't really believe it if I told you."

Sherlock's gaze was challenging. "Try me."

Dean sighed. "He yanked me out of Hell."

Sherlock looked… well, Dean would say confused, but Sherlock never looked confused.

"And you dated him because of that?"

Dean blinked. "What? No! That's how we met!"

"Oh." Sherlock looked very much like he was trying not to roll his eyes. "How did you two become a couple, then?"

"Uh…" Dean cleared his throat and glanced at the others up ahead. Cas was animatedly explaining the Garden of Eden to an enraptured John Watson, while Sam and the Doctor were arguing over some aspect of the zombie reversal spell that Dean wasn't even going to try understanding. None of them, fortunately, appeared to be paying attention to his conversation with Sherlock.

"It was, um, a few months back actually. We've known each other a long time, Cas and me. Been through a lot together." Dean cleared his throat again. "But then we… well, we got into a situation I didn't think either of us would live through."

"What kind of situation?"

"You wouldn't believe me."

Sherlock made an exasperated noise. "I shall be the judge of whether I am capable of believing something or not."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Right. We were in Purgatory, okay? Monsters everywhere, no food or sleep or shelter anywhere. No choice but to keep fighting. And I thought, we weren't gonna get out. We were gonna be stuck in there forever, or we were gonna die there. And I thought… well, fuck it. Who's gonna judge us? When am I gonna get another chance?"

"So you confessed your feelings?" Sherlock asked.

Dean felt his neck heating up. Could someone remind him why was he telling all of this to the consulting prick? "Not exactly--I mean, I did, just not at first. We were, uh, well let's just say Cas nearly bit the dust. I panicked a little and, uh, planted one on him."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You kissed him?"

Dean cleared his throat. "Um, yeah, well. He kissed back, okay? And after that it was just… it was like the missing puzzle piece fell into place."

Sherlock appeared to be contemplating this. "I see."

"Great. Glad to hear it," Dean snarked. "Now we are moving on and never discussing this again, got it?"

Sherlock didn't even seem to be listening to him anymore. Dean gave a growl of frustration and hurried to catch up to Cas. He slung an arm around his angel's shoulders, which earned him a confused look from Cas before the angel continued on with his story.

"…and so Lilith fell and became the first true demon. Not a fallen angel, made demon on their own, but turned into one by Lucifer. His first real creation, if you can call it that. And so God created a new woman, this time from Adam's rib, thinking that if she was a part of Adam then she would not turn from him as Lilith had…"

Dean grinned. Yeah. Might have been awkward as hell at first but he wouldn't trade what he had with Cas for anything.

* * *

The group stared up at the ruined castle, collectively frowning.

"Well, leave it to the guy to be all dramatic about it," Dean noted.

"Are we seriously going to try and storm the gates?" John asked.

"My powers have somehow been nullified in regards to this place and the spell Crowley cast," Castiel explained. "But if Sam and the Doctor's information is correct…"

Sam held on the piece of paper on which they'd scribbled down the reversal spell. "I think it should work," he said, squinting at it. "Although the Doctor's writing is terrible."

"You try writing in English when it's not your first language," The Doctor sniped back.

"Let me see that," Sherlock insisted, snatching the paper.

"Not so fast, boys," A Scottish voice drawled.

Dean rolled his eyes. "Always with the dramatic entrances?" He asked as they turned to face Crowley.

Watson frowned. "This is a demon?"

"King of Hell, if you please," Crowley rebuked. "And really, you'd have thought my bottling up angel boy's powers would have been enough of a deterrent for you."

"A zombie apocalypse, though…" The Doctor said contemplatively. "Doesn't seem particularly clever."

"The spell didn't exactly do what I thought it would. False advertising," Crowley explained.

"Oh for the love of God are we going to stand around discussing this or are we actually going to get around to the villainous monologue anytime soon?" Sherlock snapped, annoyed. "I would like to hurry this up and take a proper shower."

John muttered something, but nobody could hear exactly what it was. Judging by his tone, it was something about Sherlock, and it was none too flattering.

"Right, if you insist," Crowley said. "Would you like the classic It's-Too-Late-You-Can't-Stop-Me, or something more in the vein of If-I-Go-Down-I'm-Taking-You-With-Me?"

"Are those our only two choices?" Sam asked.

"Oh, Moose," Crowley clucked his tongue. "So picky."

"How about…" The Doctor whipped out his sonic screwdriver and brandished it threateningly. "I just threaten you with this!"

Crowley's forehead furrowed in confusion. "What is that? A laser pointer?"

The Doctor gawked at him. "Unbelievable!  _Unbelievable_. You people…"

Sherlock, meanwhile, had been reading the spell over Sam's shoulder. "You've got that part wrong," he noted.

Sam glanced up at him. "What?"

Sherlock pointed. "That. Right there. Completely illogical given the sequence of the intonations."

Sam blinked, and then handed the spell over. Sherlock immediately began scribbling away.

"I don't understand," Castiel said slowly. "Why does there need to be a villainous monologue?"

"Tradition, Cas," Dean explained.

Castiel considered this, and then nodded acceptingly.

"Right. Epic final battle time, or…?" The Doctor asked.

"I still haven't gotten my monologue yet," Crowley objected.

"Got it!" Sherlock announced, handing the paper back to Sam.

"This makes no sense," Sam said, squinting at the atrocious handwriting.

"Of course it does," Sherlock pointed at the paper. " _Sirius Mundi_ _…_ "

"All right!" John bellowed.

Everyone fell silent. John gestured at Sam. "If you please?"

Sam sighed, and began reciting the incantation.

"Bullocks," Crowley muttered. "Is this my queue to pop off then?"

"Actually the spell will send you back to Hell in about ten seconds," Sherlock said. "If Sam recites it properly."

"Sam's been reciting Latin since he was five, I think we're good," Dean snarked, glaring at Sherlock.

"'Til next time, then," Crowley said with a sigh as he vanished.

When Sam finished the incantation, there was a very long pause as everyone looked around. Other than Crowley's vanishing act, there was no sign that the spell had worked.

"How do we know the world's not still battling the undead?" John inquired.

"Good question," The Doctor noted.

"Does this mean we can't keep Irwin anymore?" Castiel asked, clutching the platypus tightly to his chest.

Dean sighed. "We'll talk."

Sherlock's phone rang. The detective looked at the caller ID, sighed dramatically, and handed it to John. John rolled his eyes and answered it.

"Hello, Mycroft."

There was a pause as Mycroft spoke at the other end. John covered the receiver and spoke to the others. "He says that the zombies have mysteriously vanished but because of that so has the majority of earth's population. Yes! Yes I'm listening." John frowned. "Mm-hmm. Yes, he's here." John turned to the Doctor. "He says they're sending a helicopter for you, it's been an annoyingly long time, and there's a demanding blonde giving everyone orders who is coming to pick you up."

"How did they know where we were?" Sam asked.

"Mycroft does that," Sherlock said, bored.

A breeze sprung up, blowing the grass about as a helicopter came into view. "That was quick," Dean observed.

John, meanwhile, had started arguing with Mycroft over the ethics of his lack of action during the zombie apocalypse. "It took a girl barely into her twenties to get anything done, and now that it's over you manage to not only locate us but send a helicopter within five minutes!?" The former army medic bellowed.

"I think he gets the point, John, he was a terrible human being again, business as usual," Sherlock drawled, taking the phone from John and ending the call.

"This is a serious matter," Castiel said, sounding distressed. "Do we have to give Irwin back to the zoo or not?"

"We'll talk in a sec, Cas," Dean said soothingly.

They all watched as the helicopter banked low, circling one more time before it came to rest on the grass about fifty feet away. The door opened and someone exited: a petite, female someone, with blonde hair, warm brown eyes, and the biggest grin on her face. She was dressed in the same outfit as when the Doctor had last seen her, and she was carrying a mighty large gun.

The Doctor started running.

"Who is that?" Castiel asked.

John grinned. "I'm willing to bet that's Rose Tyler."

Rose was sprinting as fast as she could, the gun banging against her body in a rather painful manner but she didn't care, didn't even notice, as she reached the Doctor. She dropped the gun.

It went off with a massive  _bang_.

Every single person jumped and drew their weapons before they realized what had happened.

"If it isn't you giving me a heart attack," Dean muttered to Cas, "It's something."

Rose shrugged. "Sorry?" She said, not sounding sorry at all.

The Doctor swept her up into a hug, squeezing the air out of her, mashing her face into the crook of his neck.

It was extremely uncomfortable.

She didn't give a damn.

Well, except for the not being able to breathe part. That needed fixing.

Rose pulled back, smiling up at the Doctor, who was positively beaming. "Knew you'd find a way to fix it," She told him.

"And you managed to keep the government running," The Doctor replied, spinning her around. "Rose Tyler, Zombie Resistance Leader."

She laughed, but as he stopped spinning her the laugh died away, leaving them still holding each other, faces mere inches apart, staring.

Sam leaned over to the others. "I think this is the part where we look away now," he whispered.

Sure enough, the Doctor leaned down and kissed Rose fiercely. She responded in kind, gripping him tightly and opening her mouth with a contented sigh.

"I thought you were dead," The Doctor explained, his voice hushed.

Rose tightened her grip on him, brushing her lips against his. "Take more than a few zombies to keep me from you," she teased. "Not even a parallel universe could stop me. All of time and space, you promised me, and I aim to make you keep that promise."

The Doctor kissed her again, and then tugged on her hand. "Come on," he said. "There are some people I want you to meet."

Rose took an immediate liking to Sam, Dean and John, thought Castiel was awkward but adorable, and had an interesting few moments with Sherlock before they both decided that they could respect each other, but they never wanted to speak to one another ever again.

* * *

They all took the helicopter back to London, where the TARDIS and Sherlock and John's flat awaited them. Mycroft gave them all a thorough debriefing (he and the Winchesters immediately hated each other, although Castiel earned points with Sherlock for being the first thing to completely baffle Mycroft Holmes), and then it was time to go their separate ways.

"Take good care of him," Castiel intoned as he handed Irwin to Watson.

"You know the only reason we're keeping that little creature is because you hid my skull," Sherlock noted.

"Of course, Sherlock," John replied. "That's why I caught you petting him while he was napping yesterday."

"I was n-!"

"Lovely to have met you all," The Doctor said quickly. "But we really should get going."

He and Rose shook hands with everyone, Dean warning him that he had "quite a catch there--better take good care of her" and jerking his head at Rose. The couple then headed back to the TARDIS.

"Cas?" Dean said with a grin. "Think you can zap us back home?"

Castiel nodded, giving Irwin a final pat on the head. "Be good," he warned the platypus seriously.

Irwin made a purring sound.

Castiel placed a hand on Dean and Sam's shoulders, and in a blink they were gone.

Leaving John and Sherlock alone for the first time in several days.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Shall we walk back?" He asked.

John shrugged. "It's certainly nice enough out."

"And not as many people," Sherlock noted. "Won't be too crowded, now that the planet's population is down to about a hundred million."

John tried to suppress a chuckle and failed. "That's not funny, Sherlock."

Sherlock merely smirked.

They made their way through nearly-deserted London, John occupying himself with taking in the destruction and handling Irwin. After about ten minutes of tense silence, Sherlock cleared his throat.

"I had an interesting conversation with Dean Winchester yesterday morning."

"Did you?" John said mildly, only half listening.

"Yes," Sherlock stopped walking. "He said that he and Castiel, the angel==if he really is an angel-"

"He disappeared into thin air, Sherlock."

Sherlock waved that fact away. "In any case, he said that he had admitted his feelings to Castiel after they were in a life or death situation, one that he was afraid they couldn't get out of."

John nodded. "Makes sense."

"I am not one for choosing a dramatic moment," Sherlock began.

"Yes, you are," John retorted. "You're the worst drama queen I know."

"John, would you please let me finish?"

"What's the point of this anyway?" John asked, frustrated. "You go off at me a few days ago, you barely speak to me after that, and now the whole thing's over you want to suddenly chat about Dean Winchester--who, by the way, you hate--and his relationships, and  _feelings_ , which you never do, and-"

"John!" Sherlock shouted. "Has it occurred to you that I am trying to apologize for my actions the other day and tell you that I was angry because I was scared you would go and die without me because I love you?"

There was a rather long pause after that declaration. John positively gaped at Sherlock. "You… you what?"

Sherlock looked incredibly pained. "Please don't make me embarrass myself twice in a row," He said quietly.

"You… you. Sherlock Holmes. Married to his work Sherlock Holmes. You're…?" John appeared incapable of completing a sentence.

"Yes."

"For how long?"

"Since the pool."

John heaved a sigh, and Sherlock looked down at the ground, certain that it was over. John would ask to move out, and he'd take the damn adorable platypus with him, and-

"You sodding idiot. Why didn't you say anything sooner?"

And then they were kissing in the middle of an empty London street, Irwin the platypus squished between them.

* * *

Rose would like to start out by saying that she was all for sex, especially hurry-we're-not-dead reunion sex. However, she would like to add that sex on the floor of the TARDIS is far from the most comfortable thing she'd ever experienced.

It's the floor vents. They leave marks.

Still, she wasn't complaining. They'd started making out the second the TARDIS doors had closed behind them and they hadn't really stopped until they'd needed to separate so that they could pull each other's clothes off. She definitely wasn't complaining about being able to finally touch what she'd been fantasizing about all of these months, getting to take the Doctor apart with her hands and her mouth. And she most certainly wasn't complaining about his bedroom skills.

Apparently it was possible to orgasm three times in the space of forty-five minutes. Who knew?

They were still lying there, a tangle of limbs and discarded clothing, when Rose's phone rang. She rolled over onto her stomach, groaning, and fumbled about until she had wrestled the annoying device out of her pocket.

"Tell them to bugger off," The Doctor said, shifting to wrap an arm around her back and burying his face into her hair.

"It's Mum," she said, making a face. "Sorry."

The Doctor said something in Galifreyan that Rose had learned, over time, roughly translated into "fuck."

"Hi, Mum!" Rose said, faking cheerfulness.

"Where the bloody hell have you been!?" Jackie Tyler's voice came out loud enough for the Doctor to hear. "First I don't know where you are, and then you're the leader of some Zombie Resistance, and then next I hear you've popped up to Scotland! You couldn't have thought to check up on your mother through all of this? Make sure I'm not a Walker?"

"I'm sorry," Rose said apologetically. "The Doctor's been through a lot, is all…"

"So the Doctor is suddenly more important than your mother?" Jackie said, pulling an affronted tone. "I need help recovering too!"

The Doctor buried his face into Rose's shoulder to muffle his laughter.

"Yeah, but Mum…"

"I'm going to need to recover from the recovering," The Doctor whispered in Rose's ear. She planted her hand on his face and pushed him away a little.

"Look, Mum, I'll be there soon, yeah? Just make yourself some tea or something."

"Tea? I've just dealt with an army of bleedin' corpses and you're telling me to sit and make tea while you nurse your precious Doctor!?"

Said Doctor was finding the spot of skin just below Rose's ear fascinating, and was exploring it thoroughly with his tongue.

"I seriously have to go, Mum! See you soon!" Rose quickly hung up and rotated so that she and the Doctor were face to face. "You," she warned him, "Are incorrigible."

The Doctor grinned. "I've just been through a zombie apocalypse, Rose," he said. "I'm in shock. Can't be held responsible for my behavior."

Rose's lips quirked upwards. "I guess I'll just have to help you recover, then," she said, her tongue poking out from between her teeth as she smiled coyly.

"Might have to go through several recovery sessions. It was quite a traumatic time," The Doctor warned her.

Rose laughed. "Oh, there'll be recovering all over the place. But this time on the bed."

She shoved him towards the hallway that led to the TARDIS's other rooms, laughing when he scooped her up instead and carried her, her giggles echoing throughout the immense ship.

The TARDIS hummed, glad that those two had finally taken that final step. If dropping them in the middle of the apocalypse hadn't worked the ship would have been forced to lock them in a room together.

* * *

"Goodbye, England. Helloooo, good old U.S.A." Dean grinned, stretching his arms up over his head until his shoulders popped. "There you are, Baby."

The Impala was sitting right where they'd left it, a bit of dust on her windshield but otherwise in perfect condition. Dean hurried over, running his hand over the hood lovingly.

Sam was a bit more out of sorts, grumbling unintelligibly to himself as he folded his lanky body into the front passenger seat.

"Are you all right, Sam?" Castiel asked.

"Ah, ignore him," Dean said, wrapping an arm around the angel's waist. "He's just cranky 'cause he couldn't get laid during a freakin' apocalypse."

"Can you just get in and drive?" Sam groused, pulling Bitchface #39.

Dean grinned, slipping behind the wheel as Cas settled into the backseat. "All right, boys," he said. "Let's go."

"Where?" Castiel asked.

"The nearest diner. I need a fucking pie. And a beer."

"Dean, the level of alcohol that you consume is not…"

"Cas, I'm fine. My liver is not going to explode."

"No, it will merely shut down."

"Son of a bitch, Cas, could–"

Sam cranked the radio up as high as it would go, trying to tune out the sound of an argument that probably wouldn't stop anytime soon.

The Impala roared off into the sunset.

* * *

"Lestrade," Sherlock said with a nod. "Good to see you had the brains to survive."

"Pun not intended, I assume?" Inspector Lestrade said with a sigh. "Should've known you'd make it out."

"I'm impressed," John said, looking around. "Hardly a week after the whole thing and already the Yard is back on track."

"Maybe we're not as incompetent as Mr. Holmes would like to believe," Came an annoyingly snarky voice.

Anderson strode over, tired-looking but otherwise fine.

Sherlock made an annoyed sound. "Just my luck. Ah, well. Can't have everything, I suppose."

At Anderson's look of complete incomprehension, John began a coughing fit to hide his laughter.

Sherlock didn't bother hiding his smile.


End file.
